Queen & Spadina, Depressed

The beat goes on; the beat is endless.
Heavy lidded pulsing in my gut,
little churning currents of blood
pounding in the temples,
in the roof of the mouth.
And in the fuzzy stillness,
thoughts half-born, like
the bloody feral's kittens left behind
when the coywolves attacked,
half-eaten now. The fuzzy fury,
approaching articulateness,
approaching full, awful packaging.
And the stillness, heaviness
of limbs locked in walk-motion,
blocks stretching out
funhouse-mirror-like in distortion.
The beat goes on, but
'tis all in pieces, all coherence gone
all just supply, and all relation
(Donne). And it goes on,
the cotton fog, the chasm between
what's in the theatre of the eyes
and that land of value,
of "yes", of "no". Instead,
all's just relation. This, then this:
the streetcar clangs seven times,
the bass beat from headphones in 4/4,
always the hip-hop 4/4,
the man in front in half-light,
there is scaffolding:
within a young woman is doe-eyed.
And so many blocks,
and such indifferent cold.

Consider: "There ain't a penthouse Christian who wants the pain of the scab, but they all want the scar."